Charles clicked his tongue. “You’re smarter than that.”
“How did you know?”
“You’re the only person who would call him kind.”
“Don wrote the pieces that made me who I am,” she said. “Of course I love him. But he doesn’t love me.”
“Then I think you know how it was he came to write this musical.”
But she didn’t know.
“He confides in you, asks you for help. I know you two have been out together. No one can claim to know him so well.”
She thought of Don on the street the night before, the look in his eyes. “I still don’t think I understand him.”
He raised his eyebrows. “You don’t want to understand.”
She picked up the corner of the blanket, examined the crocheted squares. She could feel Charles looking at her.
“Eleanor, when he first saw me in the club, he bought me a drink. I didn’t know if he was propositioning me for a job or something else.”
Eleanor’s face warmed. “Charles, whenever we go out, he treats me like his date.”
Charles didn’t reply, just kept his eyes on her.
She knew what he was trying to say and felt humiliated. She struggled for her words. She continued to examine the blanket.
Then the front door opened, letting in the hallway draft. Gwen entered, followed by a boy of about fifteen who was so tall and thin he looked stretched out. When he saw Eleanor, he narrowed his eyes, then offered a smile so resembling Charles that she knew him to be Davey, his little brother.
“Hi, baby.” Charles kissed his wife. “Look who came for a visit.”
“What are you doing all the way up here?” Gwen asked.
“So this is the white lady.” Davey held out his hand. His arm was so thin that Eleanor imagined a noodle.
Gwen leaned against her husband. “You know, I heard about all that business with the article.”
Eleanor knew how much Gwen loved Charles. She felt that she’d made a larger error than she was aware of, no less dangerous for her ignorance. “It was a horrible mistake.”
“Charlie forgave you, so it’s put to rest.” Gwen hesitated. “If you have any more questions about my husband, you’re welcome to ask me.”
Eleanor felt hot. “I will.”
Davey was raising his eyebrows like he was enjoying the scene before him. Gwen smiled at Eleanor. “So let’s catch up.”
Charles held out his hand to help Gwen as she descended toward the couch, palm on her stomach. She groaned when she landed.
Davey stared at Eleanor. “You ever been up this far?”
“No.”
“You know Gwen was a maid, as a girl,” he said. “She cleaned up after women like you.”
Eleanor blushed again. “I’ve never had a maid.”
Davey shrugged, then turned to Gwen. “I’m going back out.”
Charles stood. “Where?”
“Meeting friends in the park.”
“Be back by dinner.” Charles’s voice took on a paternal tone.
“We’re going to—”
“Seven.”
Davey loped from the apartment without another word. Eleanor heard his footsteps all the way down to the street.
“He’s a good kid, but he makes me hope to God this one isn’t a boy,” Charles said, nodding at Gwen’s womb.
Eleanor did not know what to say; she had no brothers, and growing up in Wisconsin was very different from growing up in Harlem.
“I hope the show will have a better run in New York than Boston,” Charles said.
Gwen gave him a look like he was naïve. “A few hundred miles won’t change much.”
“At least in New York we’ve got protestors on both sides of the issue,” Charles said.
Gwen heaved herself off the couch with a pained expression.
Charles stood. “Are you feeling all right?”
“I don’t like this talk.” Gwen went to the piano and played middle C. It needed a tuning; little ripples muddied the pitch. “The protests could get out of hand quickly.”
“I thought you weren’t afraid,” Eleanor said.
“Maybe my maternal instincts are kicking in. I think you two are playing with fire.”
Eleanor watched as Charles walked over and rested his hand on his wife’s hair, cupping the back of her head. She watched their tenderness with an empty, aching feeling. Gwen rested her forehead against Charles’s chest.
“I don’t see how those characters could have a happy ending,” Gwen said. “But wouldn’t it be wonderful if life worked that way?”
Chapter Twenty-One
The night before the first Broadway rehearsal, Rosie made dinner.
She pressed a glass of champagne into Eleanor’s hand. “You did it. Everything you said you would.”
Rosie had roasted a chicken and mashed potatoes, and it wasn’t until the bell rang that she announced that Tommy would dine with them.
“You’re my best friend,” Rosie said. “So we need to make this work. Go get the door.”
Tommy stood straight, like he might get a prize for his posture. He handed over a bottle of wine.
After a minute of tense hellos, Rosie dropped flatware into Tommy’s hands. “Why don’t you set the table?” Then she left to check on the chicken.
“We’ve been dismissed,” Tommy said once he and Eleanor were alone.
“I think we’re supposed to be friends again,” she said, narrowly missing the phrase “kiss and make up.”
“I figured as much.”
They fell quiet. Eleanor wondered what they could talk about—the show seemed taboo, like it would drag up their old fights. “So how’re things with Rosie?”
Tommy’s shoulders tensed.
“She tells me you two are swell.”
“Well,” Tommy said. Eleanor waited for him to continue, but that appeared to be it.
Eleanor poured more champagne. “I really am happy for you.”
Tommy adjusted the forks and knives with more care than was necessary. Eleanor picked up her glass and drank too much in one gulp. “We could just pretend you and me didn’t happen.”
Tommy backed away from the table and sank into the couch.
Eleanor tried again. “We always got along. Why don’t we pay attention to that?”
He drank from his glass, looking unhappy about it.
“I’d offer beer, but . . .”
“It’ll disrupt her menu.” Tommy caught her eye, and seeing her grin, offered one of his own. “I’m sure the production in the kitchen is even fancier than what you’re up to all day.”
“And you’ll lose a finger if you go investigate,” Eleanor said.
It was a new set of roles; friend of Rosie, Rosie’s boyfriend. Eleanor felt her importance level shifting, going from principal to supporting, in Tommy’s eyes. But then she realized that shift had already happened, months earlier.
“Will you meet her parents?” Eleanor asked.
“Not sure,” he said. “I don’t think they’ll visit.”
Eleanor laughed. “Mr. Hughes isn’t the New York type.”
“Will he like me?”
His voice betrayed only a touch of self-consciousness, but he wouldn’t have asked unless the concern ran deep. Eleanor smiled.
“Why don’t I tell you about them?”
* * *
“Did you have fun?” Rosie slipped on a nightgown.
Eleanor was already dressed for bed, having escaped to the bedroom to allow Rosie and Tommy to say a long goodbye in the living room. “I did.”
The night had improved after they each downed some champagne. Once it became clear that Tommy and Eleanor would not break out into a fight, Rosie relaxed and began to show off her usual sparkle. She told stories
Eleanor hadn’t heard before, about evenings out with Tommy’s friends and Sunday family dinners. She talked about the clashes with Tommy’s mother over how to cook a casserole, and then how they bonded over Billie Holiday. It was then that Eleanor knew how much Rosie had been holding these stories back, afraid of showing her happiness. But though she felt some jealousy, it wasn’t over Tommy, and then even that passed, and she began to laugh with them.
Rosie knelt on the edge of the bed, her long hair rolled into curlers. “I have something to tell you.” Her hands were clasped in her lap. Eleanor couldn’t see her left fingers but understood immediately.
“Rosie.”
Her friend smiled, her eyes moist. “Oh, Eleanor. He asked me yesterday but I couldn’t say yes until I knew you and I would be all right.”
Eleanor felt steeped with dread. Marriage would change everything. Rosie was leaving, for good. She wanted to throw off her blankets and make a scene. Rosie waited. She looked apprehensive, but underneath, very happy.
Eleanor took a deep breath. “I’m going to miss you,” she said. “So much.”
Rosie wrapped her arms around her. Eleanor began to cry, surprising, desperate sobs. She felt Rosie’s cool skin against her cheek. They had spent so many years together.
“This is what you always wanted.”
“Both of us now.”
“Yes.” Eleanor pulled back, wiped her eyes. “Oh, I’m such a bad friend.”
“You’re being a bad friend because you’re a good friend.”
“I suppose you’ll be moving out?”
“We found a place. Tommy’s moving in next week; I’ll join after the wedding.”
“Wow. You’ve never even stayed over at his,” Eleanor said, realizing as she spoke.
“I know,” Rosie said, her face going red. “We haven’t yet. But now, I think we will.”
“Rosie!”
She squealed and kicked her feet against the bed. “I’m getting married!”
Eleanor pulled her in again. They stayed awake a long time, arms around each other, as Rosie designed her dress out loud. Eleanor listened, alternating between smiles and a falling feeling in her chest.
* * *
At their first Broadway rehearsal, all the bitterness from Boston washed away for a few hours. They had been on a break for six weeks between the end of the Boston run and the beginning of Broadway rehearsals, and in that time, much of the tension of their quiet crowds seemed to have eased. The cast was spirited and laughing. At one point in each of their lives, Broadway had beckoned like an impossible dream. They were all grateful, and it showed. Even the veterans like Duncan and Lucille seemed to appreciate the good fortune. A job in theater was never counted on. Everyone was happy to be able to do what they loved one more time. Eleanor saw that even Don had noticed the cast’s mood; he smiled as Freddie did a series of pirouettes, then fell over, grasping the corner of the piano, breathless with laughter. Don nudged Freddie’s hands away from his music, and Freddie, in a gesture of startling bravery, grasped Don’s nose between his forefinger and thumb. Eleanor waited for Don to admonish him. Instead, he laughed.
They rehearsed in a studio on Eighth Avenue, far above the city. The protestors hadn’t gotten wind of their location, so Eleanor enjoyed an uneventful walk through the front doors. She sat against the mirror with the newest copy of the script in her lap, running her finger over the line that read “A Broadway Musical.” One of the producers had provided a breakfast. The entire cast was there, along with investors and designers. It was an important morning, she knew, but she didn’t allow herself to get excited.
In Boston she’d shared the cast’s excitement, joined in the exaggerated stories, the playful singing over breaks, the air-kissing. But that day she felt preoccupied by the coming rehearsal. Freddie greeted her with an embrace, and she returned it without enthusiasm. She was concerned about the show and had been waking up in the night with ideas on how to fix it. But she stopped short of asking Don. She did not know if their conversation after The Music Man had negatively affected their relationship.
Don stood over the piano, talking to Frank Taliercio about some new additions to the music. Frank was testing tempos, conducting and listening to Don’s corrections. When Don saw her, he stopped.
“Eleanor.”
“My first real Broadway rehearsal.” She leaned against the piano. She loved seeing him in the rehearsal studio, where he was most comfortable. Even his clothes seemed to fit with more ease. He gave her a kiss on the cheek with the performed deference of a creative powerhouse greeting his star.
As she watched his face, she didn’t see any hint of the intimacies they’d shared in the last months. He barely looked at her, instead concentrating on the score in his hands. She felt wrong, like she had imagined their friendship. She waited for him to acknowledge her more meaningfully; he did not.
“You’re busy.”
Don nodded. “Have a good rehearsal.”
Eleanor waited for a real smile, for him to meet her eyes, for him to show her a piece of the score. Instead, he turned to Frank and resumed their conversation. She stepped away, as self-conscious as she’d been on her very first day. Don’s walls had gone back up, and she had no idea how to proceed.
By then, Charles had arrived. He poured himself coffee from the breakfast table. She seized the opportunity to escape. Doing so, she caught Harry’s approving look; he loved to see evidence that his forced bonding had created genuine feeling between the two leads. Eleanor nodded at him, feeling like a cog in Harry’s great machine.
* * *
They had three weeks in New York to fix every problem on Harry’s list.
Broadway was all about sticking to the budget. Every evening, Harry passed around notes to each of them scrawled on steno paper. Faster delivery, scene four or Turn to the right, not left. If they didn’t incorporate the notes the following day, Harry demonstrated how much his temper had shortened. During the Broadway rehearsals, she saw Harry at his best. They had just eight hours in a day, during which he accomplished at least twelve hours’ worth of work. He split them up and rehearsed scenes simultaneously, so no time went unused. He noticed every cast member, even fired a chorus boy for checking his shoelace in the back of a crowd scene. That spread Freddie even thinner than he had been. As dance captain, he had to spend extra time going over the choreography with one of the swings, a young man who understudied multiple roles in the ensemble, so he could be the chorus boy’s replacement. Eleanor watched them working over lunch.
“I don’t know how you have the energy,” Eleanor said. “I’m exhausted, and I don’t spend my days dancing.”
“Stamina,” Freddie said.
“Harry really puts you through it.”
“He was in the military, you know,” Freddie said. “That’s why he runs rehearsals like this.”
“Half artist, half machine.”
“I think that’s how he makes all of it work in his personal life. You know, since he’s a fag. Balancing the wife, his boys—everyone knows, maybe even her, but since he shot a rifle in Germany they don’t care as much.”
Eleanor had considered this before. Most of the men in the cast were homosexual, but it was as if they shrugged on a cloak the moment they walked onto the street.
“I thought people in theater were open-minded.”
Freddie laughed. “Maybe inside the building. But you never know who to trust. In my experience, some people are quite another way in public.”
* * *
In March, three weeks before they would start previews, Harry pulled Charles and Eleanor aside during a rehearsal break. “What have you heard about A Raisin in the Sun?”
Eleanor had never seen a straight play before. She knew this was the first play to hit Broadway by a black woman. “I want to go.”
“And you will. Both of you. Opening night tonight.
It’ll be great press for us.”
“Can we have an extra ticket? For Gwen?” Charles asked.
Harry shrugged. “But I want to see a photo of my two stars in the Times.”
He sent a girl from wardrobe to Bergdorf’s. She returned later that day with three dresses for Eleanor. Harry picked a light blue silk that brushed the floor, with a white fur stole she looped around her elbows. Eleanor had never felt more elegant; large, borrowed diamond teardrops brushed cool against her neck.
She and Charles got ready in the rehearsal studio and met Gwen in front of the Ethel Barrymore Theatre. She wore peach satin over her round belly and had painted her lips red.
“I had it ready for your opening,” she said, pulling the skirt out to display it, “but I decided to use it tonight. I couldn’t miss this.”
Charles offered one arm to each of them and they entered the theater lobby, which was filled with men in tuxedos. Flashes from the photographer’s bulbs glinted off women’s jewels.
“I’ve never seen such elegance,” said Eleanor.
“I’ve never seen so many white people lined up to see a cast full of black people,” Gwen said.
“I was thinking the opposite,” Charles said. “When have you seen so many black people in a theater?”
Gwen smiled, the flashbulbs reflected in her eyes as she looked around the room.
A photographer captured them. Eleanor blinked over a green blob. She clutched Charles’s arm, feeling a rush of nerves similar to what she’d felt at the investors’ party. Charles gave their names. “The stars of A Tender Thing,” the photographer wrote down.
Charles whispered in her ear, “If this play’s a hit, it’s good news for us.”
Gwen paused by the ladies’ room, hand on her swollen belly. “I don’t know how I’m going to make it through a full act.”
Charles kissed her cheek. “Better hope these’re aisle seats.”
Eleanor followed Gwen into the ladies’. The skirt of her gown was too formfitting to lift up, and she struggled with the zipper. After a while, she heard Gwen’s voice, by the sinks.
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